


Miracle at Trojan Horse Coffee

by fuzzballsheltiepants



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Accidental Assault with a Children's Toy, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, My Little Pony Abuse, Pining, i'm sorry this is weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 19:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17147372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzballsheltiepants/pseuds/fuzzballsheltiepants
Summary: Jean has settled into his safe existence: working at Trojan Horse Coffee and pining after the first grade teacher who comes in every morning.  Until a snow day throws a bit of a My Little Pony-shaped wrench into the works.





	Miracle at Trojan Horse Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StickballShenanigans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StickballShenanigans/gifts).



> This is for the amazing @nickyklosed on Tumblr, as a very (very) late Winter Exchange gift. I hope you enjoy this bit of craziness!
> 
> Thanks as always to Nicole @tntwme for the Christmas Eve beta, you are a legend.

Every day was the same.

Every morning, Jean hit the snooze on his phone alarm exactly twice before dragging himself out of bed.  Every morning he stepped in the shower before it fully warmed up, and stayed under the spray until it started to cool off again.  Every morning he ate his toast plain, took his medication, brushed his teeth, spent between one and three minutes finding his keys, and locked the door behind him, checking the handle twice.

The only change was the season.  Sometimes his walk to the coffee shop was in the fresh light just after dawn, with birds chattering in the caged trees along the sidewalk and flowers waving gently at him from window boxes.  Sometimes there was the cold dampness of fog seeping through his sweater. Sometimes there was weeks upon weeks of snow, the graying from age and the tread of too many feet mellowed into butter under the glow of the street lamps.

Today the snow was fresh, flakes drifting down politely to meet the couple of inches already coating the sidewalk, muffling the familiarity of the early morning sounds of the city.  He didn’t like the quiet; it suffocated him, even as a breeze picked up to sting his cheeks. Snow meant poor turnout and a day with no tips and a too-restless Alvarez. It meant that Jeremy the soy mocha latte guy wouldn’t come in, that brief glimpse of sunshine he relied on to get him through his day smothered by the clouds like the rest of the city.

He tucked his chin deeper into his scarf and hunched his shoulders, making himself a smaller target for the sharp bite of the wind.  The grate pulled down over the front of the coffee shop was coated in a filigree of snow, each ugly metal strip turned into something striving to match the cold beauty of everything else.  It reminded him of a person in too-fine clothes, overdressing to hide the plain reality of self. There was something petulantly satisfying about raising the grate and watching the snow drop off.

Every morning he opened.  He would never admit it, but he liked being the first person to walk into the shop.  He liked being the one to cause the machines to hum on, to make the rich scent of fresh ground coffee waft through the space.  He liked seeing which pastries were delivered, five to seven minutes after the door was unlocked, and arranging them in the glass case to look their prettiest.

As always, Alvarez let herself in, two minutes before they were due to open their doors to the public.  Usually at least one customer followed her in, desperate for their caffeine fix, but today her only companion was the snow dropping off her clothes to melt into sad puddles on the floor.

“You’re late.”  It was the standard greeting for Alvarez, not just from him but from pretty much everyone, pretty much all the time.  

“It’s Christmas Eve, you grumpy bastard,” Alvarez said, stretching up on her tiptoes and pursing her lips.  He sighed and bent the few inches so she could reach his cheek. She kissed it with an exaggerated smack then spun to make herself a gingerbread latte.  As soon as her cup was in her hands she leaned back against the counter. “So you know what this means.”

“What?”

“The snow, dummy.  Snow means we’ll get like three customers, and that means we don’t have to play this stupid-ass Christmas music.”

“Sara…”

“C’mon, Jean, if I hear Feliz Navidad one more time I’m going to commit murder, and no court would convict me.”

She had a point.  “Fine. But if any customer complains, we’ll change it back.”

Sara rolled her eyes as she went to the closet that hid the stereo.  “What, like they’re not also fed up with Baby It’s Cold Outside?” 

The first notes of a popular song Jean recognized filtered through the speakers, and he almost smiled as he went back to arranging the last of the croissants.  They worked in relative silence, broken by Alvarez’s occasional out-of-key harmonizing with the music, until finally the door jingled at six fifty four and Mr. Henderson entered.

“Good morning, Mr. Henderson!” Sara sang out, while Jean went to pour him his standard drink.  As far as Jean knew, the man only drank one thing: a medium dark roast coffee, black, one sugar.  He had only heard him actually speak once, the very first day Jean had been there; every other morning he appeared, handed over exact change, grunted when he took his drink, and disappeared.  

“How are you this fine Christmas Eve morning, Mr. Henderson?” Sara asked as she took his money.  He glared at her in affronted surprise and she smiled sunnily at him while Jean handed over the cup.  “Looking forward to a visit from Santa?” Mr. Henderson forgot his customary grunt as he grabbed the coffee, and looked over his shoulder at Sara one last time before heading out the door into the steadily falling snow, shaking his head.

“You broke him,” Jean said, as soon as the door swung shut.  “He’s never encountered that much holiday cheer in his life.”

Sara shrugged as she took a swig of her second latte—peppermint mocha this time—and hopped up to sit on the counter.  If Rhemann was there she’d get chastised, but Jean had waved the white flag on this particular battle long ago. “He’s a grumpy old man. Just like you.”

“I’m not grumpy.  Or old.”

“You’re a ninety year old man trapped in a twenty five year old body,” Alvarez corrected.  “Mentally, you’re in a nursing home wondering where your teeth are and hollering to kids to get off your lawn.” 

“Would I even have a lawn if I were in a nursing home?”  

Alvarez threw a straw at him; it bounced off his chin and landed in the tray of the espresso machine.  “Seriously, though, Jean, do French people not even have a word for fun?”

“I know how to have fun.”  The words tasted bitter on his tongue, not the round warm bitterness of chocolate but sharp, like bile.  He swallowed dryly and reached for his water. 

“You could fool me.”  She watched him for a moment, and he could feel his ears burning as he wiped down the already-spotless coffee grinder.  “You should ask Jeremy out. Put your number on his cup or something.”

“What?”  Jean’s voice nearly squeaked at the end but he managed to catch it.  He made a split-second decision to play innocent. “Who’s Jeremy?” 

“Seriously?  You think we don’t all notice you pining after soy-mocha-ordering hot teacher guy?”

“I do not  _ pine _ .”

“You’re a freaking forest, Frenchie.”  It took him a minute to get it and he crossed his arms and glowered.  Alvarez was unfazed. “Tell me this: what time does he come in every morning?”

“Seven thirteen,” Jean answered automatically and Alvarez punched her fist in the air in triumph.  “This proves nothing. I know most of our regulars.”

“Yeah but you don’t get that dreamy look when you gaze at Mrs. Reilly or Chris the EMT.”  

“I never look dreamy,” Jean said, turning his cleaning rag onto the espresso machine.  “Besides, he is probably married or something.”

“He’s our age.”

“People get married at our age.”

“No ring,” Alvarez said, raising her left hand and tapping the fourth finger.  

She had a point, not that Jean would admit it.  This... _ wanting _ was bad enough, he couldn’t compound it with hope.   “I bet he’s straight though.”

Alvarez barked a laugh.  “Well, he sure spends a lot of time checking out your ass for a straight guy.”

Hope flared through him, quickly doused by the reality that even if it were true he would never do anything about it.  When he didn’t answer Alvarez heaved a sigh, hopped down off the counter and turned towards the supply room. “Well, Mr. Barrel-of-Laughs, I’m going to go explore the Mystery Closet.  If I start screaming, don’t try to rescue me, just save yourself.”

“That was always the plan,” Jean said, and she gave him a thumbs up before disappearing around the corner.  He had to give her props for bravery; as long as he had been there, nobody had dared to do more than rattle the doorknob.  Even Rhemann didn’t know what was in the room; when he had started renting the space a couple of years earlier there had been a rusted padlock keeping it closed.  The landlord had cut the lock off and checked the room, and according to eyewitness reports come out looking unnerved but said everything was fine, no dead bodies or anything.  It had since become the thing of legends and rumors, and even though Jean scoffed at all of them he had steered clear.

The protesting squeak of the door to the Mystery Closet being forced open echoed through the cafe, and there came a faint rustling, but no panicked sounds or vicious snarling or whatever.  After a couple of minutes his curiosity got the best of him and he headed for the storeroom. 

Sure enough, the closet door was wide open.  Alvarez was perched gingerly on a beat-to-hell recliner that had somehow been wedged into the tiny space, a fluffy crocheted blanket folded on the arm.  A tiny ancient portable TV sat on a shelf on the wall, a flashlight next to it. There were pastel knick-knacks arranged on other shelves; it was these Alvarez was examining when she heard Jean approaching.

“It’s…”  He’d never seen her lost for words, but he couldn’t blame her when he got close enough to see what the objects were: a vaguely terrifying array of small cartoony plastic horse figurines with brightly colored hair and pictures on their butts.  The jingle of the bell saved him from having to contemplate the strange horror any longer; his heart leaped up into his throat when he realized it was seven thirteen and his feet quickened their pace of their own accord.

A wave of disappointment threatened to swamp him when the customer turned out to be a middle-aged woman with her sullen teenage daughter.  They ordered and then immediately began arguing over something Jean couldn’t follow while he made their drinks. He swallowed his discomfort and willed the milk to steam faster.  It didn’t.

They were too involved in their argument to notice when he called their names and he did his best to tune them out until finally, finally they left and the shop was left in blissful calm.  At least until the song changed and suddenly Alvarez slid into view and began to dance with ridiculous enthusiasm. Jean watched in no little amusement as she used the chairs and refrigerator case as props, then spun across the floor until she nearly crashed into him.  She stopped short, looked up at him for a split second, then grabbed his hand and tried to drag him after her. 

When he resisted for a moment she dropped his hand and returned to her impromptu dance floor, flirting with every piece of furniture in the shop.  A small part of him wished he had just joined in; he could still remember the way it felt, to turn his body over to the beat, to move with another person like that.  But the moment was over with the end of the song.

Alvarez paused to catch her breath, a brilliant smile lighting her face.  “Laila loves that song.”

Laila, Alvarez’s girlfriend for the past month.  Jean was half-convinced she was a figment of Sara’s overactive imagination.  She was just too perfect, their meet-cute involving a runaway shopping cart a little  _ too _ cute.  Though if it had happened to him and, say, a certain lactose-intolerant teacher with a fondness for chocolate, he wouldn’t be doubting the probability of it.

There was no point in checking the clock.  It was long past time when Jeremy would have been in, leaning across the counter to chat with Jean about some book he’d just read or some movie he’d just seen, or telling a story of something his students had said, all while flashing that grin that made Jean’s heart threaten to beat out of his chest.  Jeremy smiled with his whole face; his whole body, really. His whole soul. Everything he was, poured into every smile. Jean didn’t know how he managed it, how he could look at the cold, threatening world full of people who, if they didn’t wish you ill probably didn’t wish you well, and greet it with an open heart.

It was a miracle.   _ He _ was a miracle, and Jean had never believed in miracles.

His train of thought was temporarily derailed by the arrival of another regular.  Just as he finished adding the whipped cream to Cheryl’s cup, Bob arrived, looking particularly desperate for his macchiato with two extra shots.  Then a third, not a regular, came in stomping the snow off her boots. Alvarez had disappeared again, only to reappear as the door shut behind the last person, juggling three of the weird plastic creatures.  She dropped one on the sixth toss, picked it up, and started again.

“This is harder than it looks,” she said on the third drop.

“I’m glad to see you’re finding a productive way to spend your time.”

“The world will benefit when I become a pony-juggling master and make my youtube video and become internet famous.”  The last word was punctuated by the sound of plastic hitting floor, way too close to the display of mugs for sale. She snatched it off the floor by its bright purple tail.  “I’ll go do this somewhere less fragile.”

Jean was pretty certain the day was never going to end.  His world had narrowed to cat videos on his phone and the occasional crash and curse emanating from the store room that he had long given up investigating.  He snagged a croissant from the case, making sure the remainder still sat neatly in their designated row, and stuffed a quarter of it in his mouth while he called up the next video.

The door opened while he was mid-chew and he glanced up only to promptly choke at the too-familiar sight of a gray wool coat and red plaid scarf.  Jeremy was looking down as he knocked the snow off on the mat in front of the door; Jean took the few seconds’ reprieve to clear his airway and pretend to be able to breathe.

Jeremy glanced around the empty shop as he approached the counter, today’s slow-developing smile softer somehow, more private.  A smile just for him. Jean was still finding it hard to breathe but he didn’t think he could blame the croissant. 

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Jeremy said.  There was a little snow still clinging to Jeremy’s hair and Jean wished he had the right to brush it away.  

“And to you.”  His accent came out too thick, and Jean cleared his throat.  “I didn’t think you’d be in today.”

Jeremy shrugged, looking a little self-conscious.  “I couldn’t go into Christmas without one more mocha, you know how it is.  And you said you were working.”

Jean got the soy milk steaming and the espresso machine going, adding the precise pumps of chocolate and vanilla to the cup while Jeremy watched in uncharacteristic silence.  He cast about in his mind for some benign topic but he kept getting stuck on the idea that Jeremy had come in because of  _ him _ .  As if that was possible in this world, and not some alternate reality.  

When he glanced over, Jeremy was looking at him with an expression Jean suspected was on his own face.  Maybe Alvarez was right. Maybe this was his moment. He had the marker in his hand; he could do it, he could write his number on the cup.  He could say something, anything— 

“Think fast!”  He turned in the direction of Alvarez’s voice; there was a blur of pink before something hit him in the eye.

An involuntary curse erupted from his mouth and he crumpled over, covering his bad eye.  “Oh my God!” Alvarez and Jeremy were echoes of each other. He could hear feet scuffling across the floor and a quiet thump quite close, then gentle hands touched his face.  

“Jean.”  It was Jeremy in front of him, worry staining his voice.  “Can you look at me?”

Jean straightened until Jeremy came into view, blinking vigorously against the blurring in his left eye.  He was beautiful even without his usual smile, that full mouth tight with concern. Alvarez was hovering behind him, her hands over her face, hopping from one foot to the other.  

The offending plastic pony’s body was lying on the floor near the cash register, its head near the pastry case, mane strewn out behind it.  It looked like a bloodless victim of a violent murder; in a sense Jean supposed it was. Sara stepped closer and Jean felt an absurd urge to tell her not to disrupt the tiny crime scene, and then the sheer ridiculousness of the situation hit him.  Laughter bubbled out of him; it made his eye burn but once he started he couldn’t stop. 

Sara and Jeremy were staring at him like he was insane.  He pointed at the beheaded toy. “Look what you did,” he coughed out.  “You’re a pony murderer.”

Jeremy followed his finger and the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips, quickly smothered.  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said, sounding serious. Sara looked chastised until he added, “Now Santa won’t bring you any presents.”

“You two are the worst.”  She crossed her arms. “I should throw more ponies at you.”

“Hostile workplace!” Jean said.  The burning was starting to dissipate a bit and his vision was clearing.  

“Yeah, I’m not sure I can safely leave him with you,” Jeremy said.  “You tried to blind him with a My Little Pony. Who knows what’s next?  Assault with a deadly Furby?”

“I hate both of you.  But seriously, Jean, are you okay?”

“I’ll live.”

“I’m so sorry, I totally did not mean to do that, I didn’t even realize there was a customer here.”

Jeremy’s smile broadened.  There was a mischievous glint to his eye as he drew himself up.  “Yes, well, I’m horribly offended by this incident, and I demand compensation.”

Sara rolled her eyes.  “What sort of compensation?”

“You let me take Jean out for lunch while you manage the shop.”  He gestured to the empty space behind him. “I think you can handle it.”

Jean’s jaw dropped.  He managed to close it before Jeremy turned to him.  “Is that okay? I don’t want you to feel obligated—”

“No, no, it’s okay.  It’s great.” 

He glanced at Sara, who made a shooing motion at him.  “Yeah, I’ll handle it. You two go, have fun.”  _ Get some _ , she mouthed silently after Jeremy turned towards the door.  

Jean flipped her off before grabbing his coat and joining Jeremy.  Several inches of snow had fallen since that morning and there had been only a token attempt to clear the sidewalks.  He couldn’t really believe this was happening; that voice in his head whispered at him that it was just Jeremy being nice as he always was.  But then Jeremy held out his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman. Jean took it hesitantly and Jeremy smiled up at him, yet another smile, this one touched with wonder.

“I’ve been trying to come up with an excuse to ask you out,” Jeremy murmured.  “I’m just sorry it took you getting half-blinded and the death of an innocent pony to give me the balls to do it.”

Jean couldn’t name this feeling, had no idea what to say in response.  He settled for a quiet, “Me too.” Jeremy nudged him lightly with his shoulder and struck off up the street.  Jean followed, not knowing where they were going and not sure he could make himself care. Only one word kept ricocheting around in his head, one word that he had never believed in, that had always seemed impossible.

_ Miracle _ .


End file.
